


and lights earth with her silver

by Hinterlands



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: 1k words of sera playing with cadash's hair, F/F, Fluff, and generally being stimmy, i got paid to write this!! i love life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 14:25:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8105845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hinterlands/pseuds/Hinterlands
Summary: Sera has a hold on her hair again.





	

Sera has a hold on her hair again.

It isn't as though Dyta is opposed to the gesture in theory, practically speaking--it places her in a pleasant position, certainly; a motion of the wrist from this position, tugged up gently by the hair, a touching of lips, the warm, insistent press of tongue-- _yes_. But she knows the language of Sera's hands (the most subtle thing about her, and decidedly _unsubtle_ , all at once), and her fingers are far from nervy. Instead, she's pulling them through Dyta's hair in slow, rhythmic motions, feeling the locks flow and bunch beneath her palms, almost reverently, while Dyta's head rests in the divot of her folded legs, propped against one thigh.

Perhaps, Dyta muses, suppressing the softest of shudders as Sera's ragged nails skate across her scalp just so, she should have progressed beyond surprise by this point; she knows well Sera's predilection for touch, for texture, has lodged the observation towards the back of her skull--on the edge of thought, of memory--since the heartbeat she first entered Sera's cluttered barside nook, waded through the mass of old bowstrings and smooth-sided stone cups and battered bolts of fabric littering the floor. Sera gravitates, it seems, towards _softness_ , towards objects that glide smoothly beneath the pads of her fingers, that would give beneath the pressure of a hand, a head, a body; her makeshift bed beside the window is heaped with pilfered pillows of all shapes and sizes, and it is in this cradle of cushions she sleeps, and sleeps soundly.

(Dyta knows, too, that touch is how she hauls in her emotions, pieces her jumbled thoughts together, finds the kernel of sense in them; when anger threatens to overtake all else, she first reaches towards her bow, to feather the offending person--or object, or thought, or concept, or fear, or dream--with as many arrows as her rattling quiver can feasibly hold, driving the barbed points of them as deeply into the slick surface of the wall or door--or once, famously, Dyta's settee, which had been so thoroughly assaulted in such a manner that it resembled some odd breed of porcupine--as she can feasibly manage.

But once the arrows have run dry, her tongue still fizzing with curses, weariness bleeding in at the edges of her, she will sit, and locate the softest edge of the coverlet--or the bolt of silk or velvet, the old, lumpy, malformed heap of cloth that was meant to become--in order--a shawl, a scarf, a sweater, and a blanket, in accordance with Sera's dropped stitches and changing whims--and rub it between thumb and forefinger, or the palms of her hands, or bend her neck to bury her face within the folds of it, feel it slide against her cheeks--and gradually the tension in her shoulders would ease, the maelstrom raging beneath her skin slackening, bit by bit by bit--Dyta will not begrudge her this.)

Sera sits, and runs her fingers through the silken strands of Dyta's hair, utterly transfixed, and Dyta is permissive enough, her eyes heavy-lidded, her head pressed against Sera's left thigh, until a rather urgent cramping of the neck necessitates that she move. Muzzily, she reaches back to touch Sera's elbow, the motion languid, her voice husky. "You think I could have my hair back, now?"

"There's so friggin' _much_ of it," Sera replies, her hands still moving, slowly, ceaselessly. "How d'you _stand_ this?"

"Looks good, don't it?" The barest impression of a shrug, her shoulders bumping against Sera's knee. "Suppose it feels good, too, from the way you've been going. And I've got you combing all the knots out for me."

Sera gives one such knot a good tug, if gently, and Dyta reaches back to swat her elbow with a playful hiss. Sera echoes the sound, and there comes the inevitable bending of the neck, her face bumping against the crown of Dyta's skull, and she lingers there for some moments, her breathing slow and tempered, Dyta's fingers still resting lightly against the hard knob of bone comprising her elbow. This is permissible--more than, the world winnowed down to the pair of them, sprawled together upon Dyta's bed, practically sinking into the softness of the mattress, tangled together, a knot of warmth, radiating contentment.

(And Sera, being herself, takes the opportunity to not only shatter the bubble of calm coalescing around them but utterly _decimate_ it, by sneezing, suddenly and explosively, into Dyta's hair.)

"Ew, _fuck_ ," Dyta yelps, and barely a heartbeat's pause stretches between them before Sera leans back, flinging her long, long limbs outward, and gives vent to a high, breathy cackle, the sound pitchy and sharp and warbling in and out of hearing, and Dyta flips onto her belly, a scowl incising her face, before a hairline crack begins to run the length of the facade, and she's facedown on the mattress, laughing along, muffled and breathless.

(That, she supposes, is the beauty of being with Sera--even _around_ Sera. It's hard to feel even momentary enmity when confronted with that wild-eyed grin, the crooked incisor just overlapping her bottom teeth, the saddle of freckles seated across the bridge of her nose disrupted by the scrunch of it. It's charming, in its way, and Dyta has come to treasure the high, wild, keening whoops of laughter, the jovial baring of the teeth; if Sera is smiling, if Sera is laughing, then their fragile equilibrium is intact, the world still sitting firm on its axis, and all is well. All is well.)

Once the laughter has been thoroughly wrung out of them--once Sera has flopped backwards, her arms still splayed, the odd giggle still sending a spasm through her midsection--Dyta inches forward, on her belly, resting her chin just against the divot of Sera's navel. "I'll forgive you for sneezing on my hair," she says, as magnanimously as she can manage. "Just this once." Sera has no answer for that but another breathy spate of laughter, and Dyta feels the smile playing at her lips trend towards wickedness, flashing teeth. "And I can think of about a dozen better ways to use this position."

That stops the laughter, momentarily, but the smile only widens as Sera props herself on an elbow, her eyes narrowed slightly.

"Honey tongue, you," she says, her voice thick, syrupy, and this time, when she reaches out to tangle her fingers in Dyta's hair, her ragged, chewed-down nails bite deep.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a commission from tumblr user anotetofollow; she requested her Cadash (who is a bombshell beauty, really) and Sera sharing a sweet moment, and also being nerds.
> 
> (I threw in the 'nerds' bit, I confess; you need to be able to take a joke and a little grossness to be Sera's girlfriend, after all.)
> 
> Title taken from Sappho's "Awed By Her Splendor--" and not for irony's sake.


End file.
